Club Sandwich (23 page)

“What about your sister, Rust?”

“Leah? Oh please.”

Another Brett in the family-responsibility department. Worse than Brett, actually. Leah’s a mooch.

“Okay. But you owe me big time on this.”

I mentally slide a bead across my imaginary abacus. Great.

There’s no way he can ever pay me back this much. I’m done for.

“Rusty? Will you ever come home for good?”

“…”

“…”

“Aw, come on, hon …”

“I thought so. Okay, tell your dad to come on over.”

When Is Too Long Too Long?

By Ivy Starling-Schneider

My cell phone rings. I answer without looking at the caller ID.

“Tony!”

“Four lines, Ivy? That’s it?”

“What do you think? I mean, I know it’s gutsy to admit you don’t have all the answers, but it’s also refreshing, right?”

“I can’t print this and you know it.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll send you something by tonight.”

“Thanks.”

The phone rings.

“Ivy, darlin’!”

“Mr. Moore!”

“Can you come over and give me a hand? I’m trying to clean out the refrigerator and just can’t get the vegetable bin freed up.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I stand at the door to the dining room. “I’m running next door for just a second to help Mr. Moore.”

“You do an awful lot for that man. What does he do for you?”

What? “Mom, are you okay?”

“I just hate to see you taken advantage of.”

“I’m not. I’m only being neighborly. Anyway, Trixie’s two doors down playing.”

How weird. I mean, back in Lutherville Mom wasn’t exactly your friendly neighborhood Welcome Wagon type. In fact, she remained downright reclusive, our whole existence revolving around church and right-wing politics. No wonder our neighbors thought us wackos. But really now, I didn’t think she’d be opposed to
me
reaching out and loving my neighbor as myself, etcetera, etcetera.

Mr. Moore’s waiting at the front door. He swings wide the screen door. “Come on in! Back to the kitchen. You’re a gift from God, Ivy!”

He sure sounds excited about pulling a vegetable bin out of the refrigerator.

“You had lunch yet?”

“No. I’m just about to make some for Mom and me.”

He ushers me into the kitchen. “Surprise!”

A peach pie sits in the center of the table. He reaches out and lights the candle in the middle. “Happy birthday, Ivy!”

“Oh my goodness. I forgot today was my birthday!”

Thirty-nine years old. Good grief.

In a warbly old voice, he sings the song.

God, I love life sometimes.

I
’m typing away for Tony, darn him. Mom enters the kitchen. “Look at that living room, Ivy. I feel like I can’t breathe in my own home!”

“I’m sorry, Mom. The kids are still little and playing with toys. I just can’t keep things straight twenty-four hours a day.”

“When I got up this morning there were toys all over the floor. I stepped on a LEGO and thought I would scream. And with my diabetes, I can’t take chances of injuries down there.”

Excuse me for living.

“Okay, okay. I’ll try harder. I really will. I’m sorry.”

I’m on pins and needles all the time now. I mean, she hasn’t lived here for years. Grandma and Grandpa owned the house. I know she grew up here and owns it now, but this is my home too, and has been for a long time.

She crosses her arms. “And I hate the new color of the living room. That dark berry makes it look half the size, and it wasn’t a big room to begin with.”

What do I say? I can’t fight back. She’s sick. And she was never like this before. It’s the illness talking. It’s the illness talking.

The illness talking.

Persy stands in the doorway. “Winky!
Hey Arnold!
is on! Want to watch?”

She turns toward him, and as her face swivels from me, I see it clear. “I love that Helga. She’s hilarious!”

My son holds out his hand. “Come on, Winky. I’ve got a spot saved for you on the couch.”

Rescued by a nine-year-old.

I call Lou. “Mom hates the color of the living room.”

“Oh drat.”

“Should I repaint it?”

“Let me think for a sec. How’s everything else going?”

“Okay. I’m so tired.”

“Got a solution. Why don’t you offer to buy the house from her?” Hmm? “Never thought of that before.”

“With Rusty’s raise, it would be a good investment.”

I do the mental calculations. Day care. IND. A mortgage? “Maybe so.”

“There you go.”

“I hope I can find the courage to bring it up.”

“You never know, she may welcome the idea.”

“I’ll run it by Rust.”

Owning this place for ourselves. The idea attaches itself to me. I buzz off an e-mail to Rusty and continue this week’s column, which is about honoring your parents no matter what your age. Or theirs. Man, it’s so hard sometimes, though, when you feel you just can’t do anything right in their eyes, and the vision you possess of yourself seems to deteriorate week by week. I don’t care how old a woman is, when her mother criticizes her, it chips away at her self-confidence.

I send Tony the column, and e-mail comes in. Great, one from Rusty.

Hey Ive,

It’s a great idea to buy the house. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time, but, it being your family’s place, didn’t want to assume. Let’s go for it.

Hey, I started on a diet and have lost twenty pounds so far. You’d be proud of me.

How are the kids?

Blah, blah, blah.

The closing music to
Hey Arnold!
begins, and I think, “There’s no time like the present.”

“Mom! Phone call! A lady named Candace Frost?” Lyra.

My so-called agent!

“I’ll take it upstairs!”

I bound up the steps two at a time, race into the bedroom, and shut the door. “Hello?”

I hear Lyra’s line go dead. I still haven’t told anyone about Candace. I still can’t.

“Ivy. I’ve got good news.”

I arrange a pillow against the headboard. “Great.”

“I found a smaller publishing house interested in your manuscript. It may need a little tweaking to fit their audience, but nothing you can’t handle.”

“What kind of tweaking?”

“Well, they cater to men, but they like the story idea. Can you change your protagonist to a man?”

Wow. A man? “I guess so. But half the story is about an unwanted pregnancy.”

“Maybe he’s got a girlfriend?”

“I’ll make it work.”

“Most of their books have a lot of violence in them. But if you can fit it into the plot line, it won’t be gratuitous.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll have to write under a pen name. Or do your initials for your first name. Something like that.”

“No problem there.” I might be able to keep this a secret for years to come.

“I’ll tell them you’re interested, then we’ll start talking figures.”

“As in money?”

“Right. Leave that part to me, though. I’ll get you as much as they’ll possibly give.”

As if I even believe that. I may be a novice in the publishing world, but not in the world in general. People hang on to as much of their money as possible.

The rest of the day I can’t wipe the silly grin off my face. Dear Lord, please let this work out. Please please please.

Mitch Sullivan enters the bistro, three other men accompanying him. “Ivy!”

“Mitch!” Did somebody jump-start my heart?

“Thought I’d bring a little business your way. Got a table for four?”

“Absolutely. Some good lunch specials today. Brian and the boys went all out.” I sound so professional and smooth.

I show them to a table in the back corner, private and perfect for business. “Can I get you all something to drink?”

Water. Water. Decaf. Coke for Mitch.

I fade into the background as I should.

And that’s me, isn’t it? Fading into the background. Hey! When did I become so obscure? The kids went back to school, which I can’t believe starts in August these days. How horrible for them. Trixie’s still at the day care down the street from the restaurant. Mom just moved back to her apartment with a Life Alert necklace around her neck, and Rusty’s in Minneapolis.

Or is it Milwaukee?

I don’t like that Mom’s on her own, but I’m definitely glad to be out of the trajectory of her barbs. Honestly, Mom and I used to be so close. I hate this. I feel like I’ve lost her already.

I’m praying like crazy that she doesn’t burn the place down around her.

Harry keeps to himself for the most part, and now that Mom’s back home, I’m not on edge about that subterfuge.

A small breathing space surrounds me, and I should be enjoying it a lot more than I am. But I’m worried. About Mom, about Rusty, about Brett, not to mention my own family. Poor Trixie. A little boy named Brady has been downright cruel. I mean, we parents secretly like it when our kids get a taste of their own medicine, but enough is enough.

After the meal a lot of handshaking occurs, and everyone but Mitch exits the restaurant.

“When do you get off work?” he asks.

Whoa. “Three. Persy gets off the bus at three forty-five, and I have to be home by then.”

“Bummer. Okay.”

“Why?”

“Well, just have something I want to talk over with you. You still interested in freelance writing jobs?”

“Definitely. Trixie’s day-care fees are killing me. Lyra’s in private school, and we’re thinking about buying the house from Mom.”

“How about getting together tonight? Can you meet me for coffee?”

Yes! Yes! “It’ll have to be late.” I’ll have Harry keep an eye on the kids. He can handle them sleeping.

“That’s fine. You still live nearby, right? At your grandparents’ place?”

I nod.

“How about at that Starbucks across from Greetings and Readings? It’s more quiet than the one here in Towson.”

“They got one there?”

“Yeah, just down from the Crack Pot.”